#SundaySentence 2

I can’t leave the #Sunday Sentence project alone until I’ve squeezed one last poem from it.

 

 

Turning Over

 

His writing entered rooms dark
like birds reveling in their reach.
This frightened him to know
his word children bullied their way:
into conversations
into rooms of people in deepest night
into the bright of their days
dragging ice in their wake.

He felt then his whole life
was some kind of dream.
Wondered whose it was,
whether they were enjoying it.
He avoided the den and his desk
there     the wide smooth expanse.
Woke at odd moments, thinking
I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. 

He wanted the dark chapters to turn.
With a new pen     paper begging touch,
he returned      mise-en-scène. Wrote
summer mountain twilight, thick
with the smell of wet wood. Wrote    
twilight     the fragrance children imagine 
as possibility.  Wrote    spring, the surprise  
of birdsong, the tumble-down romance of it all.

Curious to see more of my writing?  Visit me – Brenda Joyce Patterson – on Facebook, Twitter, and my website.

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